


There and Back Again

by Stasia



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 18:03:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13082325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stasia/pseuds/Stasia
Summary: Hundreds of years after the whole world went up in flames, Thorin works as a traveling blacksmith and pedlar for his family's spices and wines. When his grandfather's map shows him an abandoned road that would cut two weeks off his travel time, Thorin is eager to try it. The road crosses the Misties near part of the Burn, but he figures he'll be able to make it past the danger without too much trouble.Then, he's attacked on the road and left to die.Rescue comes, but sometimes being rescued comes at the price of one's heart.





	There and Back Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [teaDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaDragon/gifts).



> OMGosh, I hope you like this story. I tried to make it mysterious and evocative and fun to read. 
> 
> Here's wishing for the bestest and brightest and starriest holiday season for you!

There and Back Again  
For teaDragon

***

Thorin stopped walking about half a mile above the tree line and leaned on his staff, breathing heavily. His lungs had started to ache several minutes before, but he’d been determined to make it past the trees.

He unscrewed the top of his water bottle, taking a small sip and swishing it around his mouth before swallowing. The view was tremendous; he could see all the way along the length of the Misties. The trees here were the sere and rust color he expected this close to the Burn, although there were occasional green patches, usually at low points. 

The path ahead followed the curve of the mountain’s shoulder, so the view looked back over the land he’d trekked through. He could just see the plumes of smoke from the village at the bottom of the mountains. He took another mouthful of water, and pulled out the map he’d been using. 

It was old, that was clear from the resilience of the paper. They’d lost the ability to make tivvek years ago. He set aside dreaming over the past and tilted the map to catch the sun, running a broad finger up the road he’d turned off of. _What’s the name of that village? River Dell?_

He found the village and ran his finger to where his map showed the old road he was on now. It wasn’t much of a road anymore, but it did look like it would save him nearly two weeks going around the southern route. 

He tucked the map away and started up the path. The wind caught the corners of his tunic and flapped them as it picked up. As he turned the corner around the mountain, he caught a glimpse of something far in the distance. It almost looked like sunlight on verdant fields, with the blinding shimmer of a lake’s reflection. Before he could focus, fog rolled down the valley, like a gust of smoke.

He pressed forward into the chill air, keeping his eyes on his feet where they met the shattered stone of the path. Even if he couldn’t see over the valley anymore, he couldn’t lose his way as long as he stayed on the path. The fog smelled odd, acrid and sharp, so he pressed one hand over his nose and mouth and pressed on, trying to ignore his growing dizziness. 

Before long, he found that he’d wandered close to the edge of the path; it was only the stomach-churning feeling of his heel skidding off the gravel that cleared his head. After a moment spent panting, bent with his hands propped on his knees, he walked to the mountain side of the path and kept going, his right hand over his mouth and nose and his left hand brushing the rocks of the mountain itself.

That worked for a few steps, then he staggered and fell to his knees. Just before his body hit the ground, he thought he saw a crouching figure with bulging eyes and a horrifyingly red mouth reach for him. There was a flash of pain and everything went dark.

***

Bilbo leaned out his kitchen window. He pulled in a deep breath, letting out a happy sigh at the scent of sun-warmed flowers in bits of garden at the side of his house. The sun caught the edge of the lake, sending a spray of sparkling reflections across his view. As he sipped his tea and admired yet another lovely morning, he heard the bell on the valley road tower ringing. 

“Oh, botheration,” he muttered. “It’s barely been a month since the last one.” He drained his tea mug, rinsed it and set it to drain by the side of his sink. 

Outside, he stroked old Minty on the nose and let her nibble the half-apple he’d brought for her. “I’ll give you the other half when we get whoever that is back here, sweetheart.” He hooked up the log-pulling harness and settled the travois onto the tugs, making sure everything was settled comfortably. 

They trundled down the road and he paused at the gate of the house just past his own. 

“Hey, Rosie?” he called to the small girl poking at the fat caterpillars on the plants. “Don’t just tickle them, child, you’ve got to pull them off and step on them.” Bilbo chuckled at her horrified expression. “Can you do me a big favor? Can you run inside and tell your Da that there’s another Stranger down the valley road? I’m collecting them, but the Mayor’ll probably want to know and we might need a doctor.”

She nodded at him, her blue eyes wide, then pulled a caterpillar off and held it out to him, the fingers of her other hand in her mouth.

“No thanks, love,” he said. “Now go and tell your Da.” He watched her squish the caterpillar and scamper off into the house, then trotted after Minty, who’d kept moving, her tread slow and patient. 

On the valley road, he found the lost traveler easily. He was large and heavy, but after some heaving and tugging, Bilbo got him settled on the travois. He checked the wound in the man’s leg, but there was nothing he could do for it here. The Stranger’s pack was a bit too large for Bilbo to carry comfortably, so he propped it across Minty’s back and, after a last check to make sure everything was secured, slapped Minty’s rump affectionately. 

“Come on, girl, let’s see if we can save this one.”

***

Thorin tugged the blankets higher on his shoulder and rolled over, warm and comfortable. Then he gasped and sat up; lights snapped on as soon as he moved. He was in a cozy room, in a large bed with plush blankets and what had felt like real feather pillows. There wasn’t a window, but the door was propped slightly open; he could just see the wood floor continue past the door. 

After a moment, Thorin slid to the edge of the bed; the second he moved, a sharp pain ran through his leg. He tossed the covers aside and stared at the large white bandage on the inside of his left thigh, just above the knee. 

“Oh, you’ve woken up!” 

Thorin looked up at a short man carrying a full tray and with a small table behind him. 

“Where am I?” Thorin rasped. “And what happened to me?”

The man came forward and, to Thorin’s surprise, the table rolled forward on its own, settling onto its feet with a small sigh as the man set the tray on top of it. 

“I’m Bilbo,” the man said. “What’s your name?” He uncovered a bowl with steaming water in it and poured a packet of powder over the water, stirring with a metal utensil. “After I check your leg, you can come to the kitchen and have some breakfast.”

“Where. Am. I?” Thorin gritted his teeth as his thigh twinged. 

Bilbo soaked a cloth in the warm solution and raised his eyebrows. “You’re in Hobbtyn, in The Shire. Now, move your hand so I can get to that bite, or it’ll go septic.” 

Thorin jerked his hand away from his thigh and crossed his arms, glaring at a corner of the room. As Bilbo pulled away the old bandages, though, Thorin’s eyes fell to the wound. It was ragged at one side, and a raw red color, but Thorin didn’t see any of the signs of infection or decay. 

“Bite?” he asked.

Bilbo flicked a glance up at him. “What’s your name?” His hands were cool against the warm clean bandages and Thorin’s angry flesh, but they moved confidently and Thorin could see that he was trying to hurt him as little as possible.

“Thorin,” he said. Then something Bilbo had said fell into place. “Wait, The Shire? That’s impossible, it was lost in the Burn.”

“Hmm, was it?” Bilbo tucked the last of the new bandage in and patted Thorin’s good knee. “Well, let’s see how that’s working, shall we? Here, I’ll help.” He slid an arm under Thorin’s shoulder and helped him slide onto his feet. As Thorin stood upright, he realized, with great relief, that he was wearing loose trews. 

“Can you stand on your own?” Bilbo stepped back, one hand firm on Thorin’s ribs. 

Thorin stood on both legs and tried the injured one. It was weak and very very sore, but he limped a few steps. 

“Excellent,” Bilbo said. “Now, I’ve put your pack over there, in the closet, and you’ll find clothes there which should fit you. They’re a bit jumbled, I’m sorry, but we didn’t know what would really fit you, so we just gathered a variety. Pick what you like.” He lifted the tray and the table rose with it, rolling to the door and then, Thorin assumed, down the hall. Bilbo watched him watching the table, then said, “The kitchen is to the left, three doors down. You can’t miss it.” He trotted after the table, then stuck his head back through the door. “Sorry, but with that thigh, you’ll not be able to bathe. I’ll arrange a shower for you later today, if you like.” Then he was gone.

Setting aside his curiosity about how Bilbo thought he could arrange rain on demand, Thorin looked for the closet. When he found it, he was amazed. It was large enough for him to step into, and as soon as he stepped in, it was filled with even, bright light. He saw his pack resting against the wall under a rail supporting several tunics and dresses. He bent, as well as he could, and checked. The pack appeared to have not been tampered with; the complicated locking knots he used were still in place. 

Thorin found a pile of underclothes and changed his trews, then hunted until he found a dark tunic and loose cloth pants. They only fell to his calves, but everything else he found was shorter. He limped his way down the hall and heard Bilbo’s voice coming from the third door along.

“… seems fine, but it is still pretty red. Why don’t you come down now? We’ll be having second breakfast as soon as he’s – Ah, here you are!” Bilbo turned from the wall and smiled broadly at Thorin. “Come in, have a seat.” 

The large wooden table was set with two plates and a veritable feast. Thorin could see several cheeses and at least three varieties of sausage, which shared a platter with a tall pile of bacon. Several baskets smelled enticingly of bread and Thorin saw a pot of yellow butter nearly hidden behind one of them.

“Sit,” Bilbo said, bustling back in with as a large pot of hot tea. “Dig in. If there’s anything you want but don’t see, let me know and we can arrange for it.” He sat down and immediately began filling his own plate. 

“Are we not waiting for your companion?” Thorin asked, taking much less food than he’d have liked to. 

“My comp—” Bilbo swallowed and wiped his lips. “Who?”

Thorin’s eyes shot to where Bilbo had been standing and Bilbo chuckled. “Linda? No, she’s the doctor. She’ll be along when she has time.” He looked at Thorin’s plate. “Surely you’ll want more that that? You’re a strapping big lad, you’ll need to eat to keep fit.” 

Thorin ate, watching in wonder as Bilbo filled his own plate – and emptied it – three times, before getting up. “I’ll just see if Linda’s coming,” he said. “Finish what you want.”

Linda turned out to be a brisk short woman wearing men’s trousers and carrying a large satchel. She set it down on the floor next to the couch in the well-furnished parlor and fussed over Thorin’s leg. She peeled back the bandage, then pressed a cloth to his leg and he gasped as the low ache disappeared. 

“That’ll be fine,” she said, her head bent over the wound, making it hard for him to see what she was doing. He couldn’t feel any pain, so he assumed she was just looking. After a moment, she leaned back onto her heels. He saw her crumple a bloody cloth and toss it into her satchel. “You’ll do,” she said, spraying a cool liquid over the tear. “We’ve sewed this part closed. You’ll have a mighty scar, but there’s nothing to help that. Bilbo will check it a couple times every day, but you should be able to walk without too much trouble by the end of the week.”

She handed Bilbo a stack of packets, nodded at Thorin, and snapped her satchel closed. Thorin stood and reached out a hand, which she took, her brows raised. 

Thorin bowed over her hand. “Thank you for your skill,” he said. 

She snorted, took her hand back, shot an incomprehensible look at Bilbo and left. Bilbo watched her go, a smile on his face, then he transferred that smile to Thorin, who felt an unexpected jolt. 

“Let’s get you a shower, shall we?” Thorin limped after Bilbo, his curiosity rekindled. Bilbo led him to bathing rooms; a small outer room with a small table and chair, leading to a larger one with a large copper-lined wooden tub and a tiled stall which seemed to have the head from a watering can projecting from the wall. Bilbo leaned into the stall and pulled a handle; water immediately jetted from the metal rosette. 

“This controls hot water,” Bilbo said, pointing to one of the knobs on the wall, “and this one is for cold. There’s soap on this shelf, and towels are in that case, over there. Leave your dirty things in that hamper.” He looked around and shrugged. “When you’re clean, come out and we’ll see about finding out how you got here.” 

Thorin gestured to his leg. “But, the bandages will get wet?”

“Oh,” Bilbo rubbed his nose. “Linda put a … special dressing on it. It’ll be okay as long as you don’t soak it.”

As Thorin dried himself off, he marveled at the outer dressing the doctor had applied. It was clear and oddly smooth and it stuck well to his skin. The water had simply beaded up and run off it, but he’d been careful to keep it away from water as much as he could. He found a stack of more clean clothes on the table in the outer room and pulled them on. These trousers went all the way to his ankles and he felt much more comfortable. 

Bilbo was in the kitchen, humming under his breath and setting the last of the dishes from their meal into a cabinet under the counter. He turned at Thorin’s approach and smiled. 

“You look much better. Very refreshed.” He cocked his head. “But I just realized. I forgot to get you anything for your hair. It’s very long.” He wiped his hands on a cloth and laid it on the counter. “Let’s go see if we can find you a brush and then figure out where you’re supposed to be.”

Bilbo was very interested in Thorin’s old map, although he seemed equally impressed at the old tivvek as at the map itself. He rubbed a finger over the back, with its faded indecipherable purple and orange markings and smiled. “Whatever it takes, huh? Still going strong.” 

He laid the map out on a table in his study, weighing the corners down with odds and ends taken off his desk. “So, why don’t you show me where you started out and we’ll see if we can figure out where things went off the rails.” 

Thorin pointed to River Dell. “I started there, last night—”

“That would be three nights ago,” Bilbo said, sounding apologetic. “You’ve been unconscious for a bit.”

Thorin sucked in a breath, then continued. “I needed to get here.” He tapped a place marked Khazad-Dum. “The southern route takes nearly two weeks and I was in a hurry. This map is old – it was my grandfather’s – and it showed this small road here. I asked at River Dell and they said that it wasn’t there anymore, but when I passed that spot on the road, I could see a path.” His finger rested where the side road showed on the map. “I thought that it would be worth trying.” 

Bilbo ran his own finger up the side road, letting it travel across the Misties to the end, near the well-traveled north-south road between Erebor and Khazad-Dum. “Two fewer weeks on the road is a powerful temptation, I can see your point.” He drummed his fingers on the map. “Can you show me about where you lost the path?”

Thorin shrugged. “I never did lose the path, but something in the fog attacked me.” 

Bilbo jerked back and stared at him. “Ah,” he said. He pursed his lips and said, “But do you know whereabout on the road?”

Thorin pointed to where he’d been – a sharp left-hand turn which looked like it should be at the peak of the mountain range. “It looks longer here than it did when I was walking it,” he said thoughtfully. “I expected to be that high up in the third day, not halfway along in the first.”

Bilbo looked from him to the map. “Yes, it does seem like a bit of a hike.” He paused. “May I borrow this map? The Mayor and a couple of others might be able to help.”

“Certainly,” Thorin said. He glanced around the room, his eyes catching on the large framed maps above the shelves filled with books. 

Bilbo’s gaze followed his. “Oh, those are all older than this one,” he said. “You can take them down and look, if you like. In fact, any of the books in here are open to you. Just set them down on the table when you’re done with them and I’ll put them away.” He rolled Thorin’s map and led the way out of the room. “I’ll bring this to the Mayor now, if you don’t mind. Feel free to use the kitchen or the parlor.”

Thorin swayed a little and Bilbo reached out to him, catching him against his body. “Oh, good point. You should probably get more rest. Come on, I’ll bring you back to bed.”

Thorin felt a shiver run across his skin at the feeling of Bilbo’s warm body next to his, and at the thought of Bilbo stretched out in the bed next to him. He gritted his teeth and worked on walking back to the bedroom under his own steam, letting the ache in his leg bring him back to sense.

After Bilbo left the room, having helped him out of his trousers and into a long sleeping shirt, Thorin lay on his back, trying to figure out why he was so drawn to this stranger. He’d only known him a few hours, but already he trusted him enough to tell him where he was really going. He carefully rolled to his side, distracted from thoughts of Bilbo’s warm brown eyes to the odd way the lights in the house had behaved. He hadn’t seen any servants, but every room they’d gone into had lit immediately. He was still puzzling at it when sleep rose up and claimed him.

***

Bilbo brought Thorin out to the back garden the next morning. Sun would help him heal – sunlight always did wonders – and he needed to catch up on the weeding. He made sure to bring a large hamper with food, and without thinking too much about it, he started a conversation with Thorin about plants.

Thorin wasn’t very good at plants, he said, but his sister was exceptional, and his nephews were following in her footsteps. She’d started a small vineyard in the foothills of Ered Luin and she and her husband and children were doing well for themselves there. Thorin leaned back against the sun-warmed wall and stretched his legs out.

“Do you help in the vineyard,” Bilbo asked. He squatted at the foot of his tomato plants, idly pulling the small weeds that kept trying to slide in. Thorin looked comfortable against Bilbo’s wall, in his home, and Bilbo shook his head, amused at his own flights of fancy. He’d been alone too long, that was clear, no matter how beautiful this Stranger was. 

Thorin snorted. “No, I’m death to plants.” He looked at his hands, and Bilbo thought he saw a sad look flash across his face. “I’ve tried – she used to send me out to buy seedlings and such, but no matter how hard I worked, they were always dead by the time I got back to her.” He reached for a scone and broke it in half. “I like peonies, though.”

Bilbo stood up and marched over to Thorin. “Come here.” He pulled him over to the flower garden his mother had loved, but which he’d let run wild after both of his parents died. Thorin stood in the center of the riot of plants, looking a little silly, while Bilbo ran to get a stool.

“Sit on this,” Bilbo said, “and you can weed this section. I’ll get dinner started, then come back and see how far you’ve gotten.” He spent a few minutes showing Thorin which were the weeds, then he walked away. Inside the house, he stood for a long minute looking at the paintings of his parents. “Mom, Dad, I think I’m in a bit of trouble here.” They didn’t answer, so he took a deep breath and started cooking dinner.

The next day, Bilbo told Thorin he had to go talk to the Mayor about Thorin’s map. He set Thorin up with a stack of books and enough snacks to last several hours, then set off.

An hour later, Bilbo trotted back home. His discussion with the Mayor hadn’t been particularly interesting. Thorin’s story wasn’t much different from the other recent lost travelers. The only part which was unusual was that he hadn’t lost the path itself – usually people said that they’d wandered away from the path in the fog. 

He stopped at the market and bought groceries for the rest of the week, swiping his wrist-piece for payment and arranging for the machines to deliver at night. He walked the rest of the way home, carrying a small basket with some of the fruit he’d bought. 

When he got inside, Thorin was sitting at the kitchen table, a pot of tea at his elbow and Bilbo’s book of Shire History open. The sunlight fell on Thorin’s face and broad shoulders and Bilbo sighed. Most of the strangers they got were squirrely people, twitchy and awkward. Thorin seemed different. 

Thorin looked up when Bilbo set the basket down. Bilbo blinked at the deep blue of his eyes, then smiled. “Find anything interesting?”

Thorin looked puzzled. “These are children’s stories, right?”

Bilbo doubled-checked the title. “No, that’s our main history text. I think the uni—the school might have something with more detail, if you’re really interested, but it’s always risky to bother the scholars.” He lifted the teapot lid, sniffing inside. “Would you like another pot of this, or would you like some coffee?”

Thorin lifted his head from the book and turned wondering eyes to Bilbo. “You have _coffee_?” 

Bilbo laughed. “Well, that answers that question. I’ll just get it started. Do you prefer sweet or savory scones?” He glanced back at Thorin, who still looked amazed. “Or, aren’t you hungry again? I always find that reading goes better with nibbles.”

Thorin licked his lips and Bilbo ignored the way his heart skipped. _He’s a Stranger, stop it. Just because he’s beautiful is no reason to get distracted._

“Savory sounds nice,” Thorin said. 

When everything was ready, Bilbo brought Thorin’s map and a book for himself, then set it all on the table. He handed the map back and settled down on the other side of the table. They read for another hour, until Thorin sat back and fumed. 

Bilbo looked up, wondering which part of their history Thorin had reached. “Anything wrong?”

“If these aren’t children’s stories, then they’re just flat out lies.” 

Bilbo snorted, then at Thorin’s increasing glower, he started laughing. “Sorry,” he said, calming himself. “Why don’t you read out the part that’s upsetting you.”

Thorin bent forward. “First there’s something peculiar about the locations. If I use the map at the front of this book, The Shire isn’t anywhere near the Misties, but—”

“Yes,” Bilbo said, inwardly amused. _The Protections are definitely still working. I’ll have to tell the Mayor. She’ll be pleased._ “But here we are, as your map showed.”

“Right. Then, the way this book talks about pre-Burn civilization… it’s as if it wasn’t a hell of wars and destruction. In this bit, they say that people could _fly_ , as if that makes any sense. Maybe if you bargain with one of the Eagles, they’ll take you some distance, but half the time, they’re just as likely to bring you to their eyrie and eat you and steal your things.”

Bilbo set his own book aside. “Have you met any of the Eagles?”

“Of course not. Do I look careless?” Thorin picked up his cup and then noticed it was empty. 

Bilbo laughed and stood up. “I’ll make another pot, shall I?”

***

The next day, Thorin’s leg was better enough to only need a light bandage. He watched Bilbo’s sure hands rubbing his thigh with a salve Linda had given them and hoped that Bilbo wouldn’t notice how the rest of his body wanted to react to his proximity.

He insisted on helping in the kitchen; Bilbo seemed surprised but willing. Thorin found he was enjoying himself. He’d never had much of a chance to spend time in the kitchens where he and his siblings had grown up, and as an adult, he’d been on the move most of the time, first trying to earn enough as a traveling blacksmith, then later he also carried a stock of the spices and foods his sister grew and with which he couldn’t help. 

Something about spending time with Bilbo was different, though. He never seemed impatient or too busy. He definitely did work – Thorin couldn’t quite figure out what, although it involved both afternoons spent in his study, and also flurries of messages, all borne by little children from the neighborhood. Bilbo never seemed to send messages out, for all there was a steady stream of incoming ones. 

Another thing that Thorin found confusing was how they never seemed to run out of food. The fifth evening he was there, they had been entirely out of butter and flour and they’d only had enough potatoes to make breakfast the next day. Thorin expected that they’d go to market the next morning, but somehow, the pantry was fully stocked when he got up. He asked Bilbo about it, but he just shrugged and said that they had an efficient delivery system. 

Over the next two weeks, Bilbo introduced Thorin to the other people in his village. His neighbors were pleasant people, with an active horde of children. The eldest, Samwise, liked to come and help Bilbo and Thorin with the gardening. The Mayor stopped by once, on her way, she said, to Throckmorton, which confused Thorin. He’d looked at the old maps on Bilbo’s study walls and Throckmorton was well over-land, and in the other direction. But he watched and she walked sturdily down the road and around the corner.

A young couple visited one evening; Bilbo spent the whole day cleaning and cooking and then, when everything was ready, he collapsed, laughing, against Thorin’s chest, saying, “I’m too weak. You’ll have to carry me to the parlor.” Thorin let his arms close around Bilbo and wished he could stay with Bilbo forever.

The next afternoon, he sat on his bed and looked at his thigh. His leg was entirely healed. He couldn’t put this off any longer. He pulled his pack out of the closet and set it on the chair in the corner of his bedroom. It had looked so well-made when he’d arrived and now, somehow, it looked old and shabby. 

“Thorin, are you nearly—oh.” Bilbo stood in his doorway, a cup of coffee in his hand. 

Thorin sighed, heavily. “I cannot stay here, letting you support me, forever.” He hoped that he didn’t sound as unhappy as he felt. “I must go.” 

“You… yes, I suppose you must.” Bilbo sounded distant and Thorin turned to look at him. His face was still and reserved and Thorin suddenly realized that he’d looked this way when Thorin had first woken up. He’d been so much warmer, more open, in the past two weeks, that Thorin had forgotten.

Bilbo turned and walked back down the hallway and Thorin ran his hands through his hair, then followed. Bilbo was in the kitchen, looking out the window at the road. At Thorin’s entrance, Bilbo sighed and turned around. He looked sad, but resigned. 

“You could stay longer. Hamfast was hoping to talk to you about your sister’s vineyard.” 

Thorin stood as near to Bilbo as he could stand, but shook his head. “My family will miss me soon. It’s been the two weeks I’d have spent on the regular road, and I still have to take that road again to get to Khazad-Dum. I must leave. But…” He paused and bit his lip. “If you—if it’s okay with you, I could return?”

Bilbo laughed, but it sounded to Thorin like he was sobbing. “Oh Thorin, yes, of course it’s okay with me. Just—” He wiped his face, then stepped up to Thorin, reaching a hand to stroke his cheek. “I hope I have not mistaken your interest,” he said. “Let us spend at least one night together.”

Thorin bent forward, pressing his lips against Bilbo’s. “You have not mistaken,” he said. 

***

The next morning, Bilbo slid out of bed before Thorin woke. He spent a second watching the way Thorin’s face had relaxed in sleep, then padded out of the room to gather the things he needed. 

By the time Thorin woke up, Bilbo had made breakfast, packed a large lunch for Thorin, and had received the package he’d requested from the Mayor’s office. He braced himself as Thorin carried his pack into the kitchen. Thorin was wearing his old clothes, and Bilbo was glad he’d thought to mend them in the first few days Thorin had been there. 

He sat down without saying anything, then turned to face Bilbo. Bilbo almost couldn’t look at him – his eyes were so heated and earnest. “I’ll return, I promise,” he said. “I just need to make this last delivery, and talk to my family, but they’ll understand if I choose to live here instead of with them.”

Bilbo ran a hand along Thorin’s cheek. “They love you. I’m sure they’ll want what’s best for you.” He pasted a smile on his face and sat down. “Let’s eat a good breakfast, and then you can pack the things I’ve got for you.” Thorin reached out and held his hand; they ate with their fingers laced together.

When they finished eating and Thorin had put away the food Bilbo gave him, Bilbo took a deep breath and said, “I have two things for you. First is this.” He pulled out a long silver chain with a small charm on it. “It’s so you don’t forget us. And me.” 

Thorin looked at the symbols on the charm, then asked, “What do these mean?”

“It’s just a old thing, an old wives tale. It stands for memory. People used to give these to family who were traveling far away.”

Thorin lifted the chain over his head and tucked the charm into his shirt. “I’ll wear it forever.” He pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s palm. 

Bilbo coughed. “The other thing is this – you have to wear it as you pass through the … well, just put it on when you get to the corner, and don’t take if off until you’re down to the tree line. Breathe through your nose for the same time.” He saw Thorin’s brows pull down at the cloth mask on the table and Bilbo said, sharply, “Listen to me. This is important. You have to do this.”

Thorin’s expression shifted and he studied Bilbo, who had no idea what his own expression looked like. Then Thorin nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I will do as you ask.”

***

Thorin tied the mask around his neck and waved once to Bilbo. Then he pulled the mask over his mouth and nose and strode around the corner of the road. He staggered slightly – he was completely surrounded by dense fog. His eyes stung and he turned to see if he could see Bilbo or Hobbtyn behind him, but he couldn’t see anything but fog. 

He started to pull in a deep breath with his mouth, then remembered the fear in Bilbo’s voice and drew in a breath through his nose. He pushed forward through the fog, keeping his right hand on the mountainside. After several minutes, he passed a spot which looked slightly familiar; a dark spray on the ground and made him realize this was as far as he’d made it in the other direction. With a shudder, he pressed on. 

The air got colder and colder, then he burst out through the fog layer into a heavy snowstorm. _This’ll be easier once I get into the trees._ He staggered forward, squinting against the swirling white snow until he was safely under the trees. He pulled the mask down, flinching at the bite in the cold air. Behind him the path was invisible through the snow.

It took him the rest of the day to get down to River Dell, but he finally arrived at the inn. When he pulled the door open, everyone inside turned to him. He shoved at the door to close it and a tall man slammed into him, shouting. 

“THORIN!! Thorin, where have you been?” It was Dwalin. He looked haggard and tired and hugged Thorin so tightly he was a bit worried his ribs might break. Then Dwalin pushed him away and glared. “Where _have_ you been? You don’t look injured or anything.”

Thorin wiped the snow from his face and said, “What do you mean? I’ve been up the mountain, in Hobbtyn.” He loosened his pack. “What are you doing here? I thought we were going to meet at Khazad-Dum.”

Dwalin looked at him oddly, then drew him to a table near the back of the large eating room. “It’s been three months, nearly four,” he said. “You never _got_ to Khazad-Dum.”

“I know,” Thorin said, shaking his head in confusion. “I said, I took the mountain path and got lost. I spent the past two weeks in Hobbtyn.” He thought of how happy Bilbo would be to meet Dwalin. “We should go back tomorrow – you’d love it there.”

Dwalin’s face fell. “Thorin, what are you talking about? What mountain path? I’ve been up and down this road every day and I’ve fought through this trackless fucking wood for the past three months looking for your—” He broke off and squeezed Thorin’s wrist. “For your _body_.” 

“But…” Thorin opened his pack to pull out the food Bilbo had packed, but it was missing. The map lay rolled up where the cloth-wrapped package had been. With a curse, Thorin pulled at his neck until the little charm lay in his palm. He brushed it with his thumb. “See, look at this.” He held it out to Dwalin.

Dwalin looked at it. “Sure, and you’ve got a little charm. That’s nice. Thorin, they sell things like that just down the street.” He waved at a woman behind the counter, who came over to the table. “Just ask Arwen, here.”

Arwen stood with her arms crossed and looked Thorin up and down. “You’ve given your friends a terrible time,” she said. “They’ve been searching for months.”

Thorin looked back and forth between them. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had no idea. I was just up in the—” He saw Dwalin’s face darken and narrowed his own eyes. “What, do you think I would lie? I was up the mountain road and I was in Hobbtyn and it was only _two weeks_ , not twice that in months.”

Arwen stepped back; she looked shocked. “But that road’s been gone at least a hundred years. There’s nothing up there now. It’s all lost to the Burn.” She looked over her shoulder, then pulled out a chair and sat down. “My grandfather went up, oh, years ago, and he said the whole mountain looked like it had been pulled down on itself. The range was gone and it’s all just …” She made a patting movement in the air. “Like it’s been filled in with rubble.”

Mutely, Thorin held his palm out to her. She lifted the charm and he was startled by his sudden surge of possessiveness. 

“Oh yes,” she said. “We make those. Well—” She laid the charm down on his hand gently and closed his fingers over it. “The Underhills make them. They’re an old family thing, they say. Supposed to be good luck.”

Thorin looked between them, then at his closed fist. “Three months?”

“Nearly four,” Dwalin said.

Thorin followed Dwalin back to Ered Luin and reassured Dis, and Fili and Kili. He talked about Bilbo, at first, but the topic seemed to make them very uncomfortable, so Thorin let it drop. They didn’t let him out of their sight, not for months. Eventually, the need for his income was greater than their worry that he’d disappear again, and he went back to traveling. 

At first, Dwalin went with him and Thorin was glad of the company. They got on well together, and between the two of them, they were much safer on the roads. They traveled across the Misties several times, and each time, Thorin could feel Dwalin’s eyes on him. 

In River Dell, Thorin stopped in at the Underhill shop and bought one of their charms, but when he compared it to his, he could see that his was, in fact, quite different. They both had engravings of a flower – the Underhills said it’s a Forget-Me-Not, which made Thorin wince – but only his had the odd rune engraved on the back. 

The next time they passed through River Dell, he showed them his charm. The Underhills marveled at it, and he watched them closely. The eldest, a bent old man with shaking hands and rheumy eyes, peered at the charm, then up at Thorin. “If you’ve been given that,” he said, patting Thorin’s hand, “you shouldn’t let it rest for too long. Luck can wear out.”

“Oh, Granther.” A young woman bustled over, and pulled Thorin aside. “You can’t listen to him, sir. He’s old and he’s begun to wander, you know, in his memory.” 

Three days later, over their campfire and after they’d finished eating, Dwalin sat down next to Thorin. “Tell me about him?” he asked. 

Thorin hunched his shoulders. “Tell you about who?”

Dwalin sighed. “Look, we’ve known each other all our lives. I don’t know what happened three years ago. All I know is that you were missing for nearly four months and that—well.” He fell silent and tipped his head back to follow the lines the fire’s sparks made as they floated into the sky. “I’ve been thinking and thinking about it and I think that whatever happened, you were happy there. So I want to know about it. And him.”

Thorin closed his eyes. He could see Bilbo’s face, laughing at him in the sunny kitchen. “He was… he was kind.” Thorin laced his fingers together. “Without him, I would be dead. He found me and brought me to his house and got the doctor.”

Dwalin eyed him. “Why’d you need a doctor?”

In response, Thorin unbuttoned his trousers and pulled them down. Dwalin raised his eyebrows, but obediently leaned in to look where Thorin pointed. After a moment, he pulled back. “That’s fucking huge. What the hell happened?”

Thorin pulled his trousers back up and fastened them. “I don’t know. I’d made it nearly to the top of the mountains and then I hit the fog layer. There was something odd about it – the fog smelled peculiar and made my eyes hurt.” Thorin sighed. “I was attacked by something, I still don’t know what. They said it bit me.”

“So, this guy, the doctor guy. Tell me about him.”

Thorin snorted. “He’s not the doctor. His name is Bilbo. He’s a cook, and a writer.” Thorin rubbed his eyes; the fire smoke was making them sting. “It was so sunny there. The sky was always such a clear blue.”

Dwalin sighed. “You sound different now. You’re quieter. You should talk more about him, I think.”

Thorin bit back his first response, then said, “I’ll think about it.”

When they got back to Dis’ house in Ered Luin, Dwalin stayed. He’d met a woman and wanted to settle down. Thorin danced and laughed at his wedding, then stayed up late to help Dis and the other planners clean up. 

That night he dreamt of Bilbo. He was standing at the front door and watching the stars. He leaned his head against the door jamb and whispered, “Where are you, Thorin?”

Nine months later, when Thorin returned from another trip, Dis sat down at his worktable. She leaned her elbow on a bare spot and watched him as he worked the short knife he was making. When he’d finished the part he was working on, he set it aside and came over to where she was waiting. 

“Yes?” He wiped his hands on a cloth, then wiped his face.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said and he laughed. She smiled at him, then continued. “Dwalin talked to me about your time … away. He said that I should ask you about it.”

Thorin shrugged. “There’s not much to tell, really. I thought I was only there for two weeks. I don’t know where I was.” He took a drink from the water bottle on the table. “I know it was real—” 

“The charm.” She nodded at it, still hanging around his neck.

“And the scar,” he said. 

She sighed deeply, then said. “I think things are going well here. Little Ori’s nearly to term, Dwalin’s going out of his mind with preparations for their baby. Fili and Kili are settling in quite nicely. The vineyard is growing.” She leaned forward. “Do you understand?”

He sat on the other stool. “Yes? That’s all good, right?”

“Thorin, I love you, you know that, right?” 

He nodded, entirely confused.

“I know you’re not happy here. You haven’t been happy in years. You weren’t happy before the … before you were gone, but since you’ve been back, you’re clearly miserable. I love you. I hate seeing you like this.” Dis reached out and took his hands. “Does he make you happy, this ghost man in the Burned town?”

Thorin stared at her. “I—but he’s not real, right? Isn’t that what everyone wants me to say?”

“Oh, Thorin.” Her face filled with sorrow. “I just want you to be happy. We’ll be okay. Try to let us know that you’re alright, okay?”

Three months later, Thorin stayed in the River Dell inn for the night. Early in the morning, he got up, left a note at the inn to be delivered to Ered Luin, then left, closing the door carefully behind himself. 

The road stretched out before him. He hiked along, humming the tune that Bilbo had always sung. Just before he got to where the side road should be, he closed his eyes, wrapped his hand around the charm, thought of Bilbo, and walked around the wide bend in the road. 

The side path was there, clear and uncluttered. Thorin turned onto it and started hiking up the mountain, feeling almost as if he were traveling back in time as well as higher in altitude. He burst out of the tree line and paused to look back at the view. The yellow-gold of the Burned trees glowed like fire in the sunlight and he laughed. He was nearly home. 

He turned and faced the shoulder of the mountain, and kept walking, keeping an eye open for the fog. He hoped that he’d have enough warning to take several deep breaths of clear air; he planned to hold his breath until he got through the fog layer.

To his surprise, the fog never came, He turned that corner, and the next, and then one last sharp bend, and he saw Bilbo, sitting on the bench next to his front door, beaming at him. 

Bilbo stood and flew down the road to him, laughing and crying. “Oh, welcome home, my love. Welcome home.”

Thorin closed his arms around Bilbo, buried his nose in Bilbo’s soft hair, and said, “I’m so glad to be here. I love you.”

_fin_


End file.
